


Sepsis

by a_nonny_moose



Series: Egotober 2017 [6]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-10 23:21:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12310011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: Things are a little tense at the office.





	Sepsis

_Sepsis, sep·sis, (n.); an overwhelming infection that causes the body to attack itself._

No one really knew what the breaking point was, and certainly, no one saw it coming.

After the fact, it was obvious, really. 

The Googles had been at the end of their wires with Mark’s latest project, even the humans in the office avoiding them. The four of them rarely spoke, plugged into their computers, eyes flashing when someone disturbed them. When they spoke, it was in unison, in scripted, clipped words. 

Wilford and Bim were stretched thin trying to get ‘Warfstache TV’ off the ground-- at least, most of the set pieces were ready to go, before last week. Following Bim’s introduction of lighted jack-o-lanterns into the studio, half of the near-perfect backdrops were now charred to bits. The others didn’t see them at all, rushing back and forth from the studio for work to the kitchen for food. Often, Bim didn’t come out at all. 

Between treating burns and the odd concussion from a Google throwing something at an intruder, Dr. Iplier was running himself into the ground. He bumped into the others in the kitchen, blearily reaching for coffee and not much else. He figured that this was the routine by now, a kind of numb undercurrent of urgency and panic at every turn. He took it a day at a time, the circles under his eyes growing deeper.

The problem arose with the Host, first. While everyone accepted that Bim and WIll would skip meals to work, there was also the understanding that they’d make it up with a bucket or two of ice cream the next day. When the Host skipped meals, there was no one to stop him from withering away entirely. On top of his work at the clinic, expecting Dr. Iplier to check up on their resident hermit was too much. The cracks started to form as the Doctor slipped into the Host’s room each evening, already exhausted, to bring him a plate of hastily-prepared food and an increasingly impatient, hypocritical warning to work in moderation. 

The break came with Dark. He was never one to be content with monotony, even when that monotony consisted of him pulling the rug out from under Mark’s project. He lived to get ahead, but lately it had seemed as if he was running endlessly into a wall, the world catching up to him as he plateaued. Crack after crack made its way into his shell, his aura snapping at the heels of whoever dared to pass by his closed door. 

Dr. Iplier was the only one who cared if any of them ate, slept, or generally kept living, it seemed. Every day, never finished with his work but too tired to continue on, he poked his head in on each of them. “Hey,” he’d ask, sometimes quiet, sometimes aggressive, “how are you?”

“We Are Fine, Doctor.”  


“Everything is great! Now, get out, Doc.”  


“The Host is well, if the Doctor would only not _interrupt his work_.”  


Today, he knocked on Dark’s door. Dr. Iplier felt more tired than he’d ever been in his life, but then again, he felt the same way every night. 

The door cracked open, blackness inside.

“Hey, Dark.” Dr. Iplier pushed it open, haggard, squinting. “How are--”

A pair of tendrils, made of smoke, but clamping down on his arms with the cold, biting grip of steel, pulled him into the room. The Doctor didn’t even have time to scream. 

* * *

No one is concerned until it’s far too late. 

The Host was the first to notice, ears straining for the sound of someone opening his door, however uninvited. Stomach growling late into the night for the Doctor’s messy, runny eggs and toast. The Host is human enough to care, under it all, and pokes his head out of his room.

Wilford and Bim have a moment to breathe between scenes and manage to check the clock, brows furrowing. 

“Hey, doesn’t Doc usually come bother us by now?”  


“The pot of coffee in the kitchen is still full.”  


“...”  


Wilford is the first of them to look towards the door, and Bim follows him into the hallway. 

The Googles are androids of habit, used to schedules. At 9:59pm, Oliver is looking at the door, mouse hovering over the pause button. By 10:01pm, Oliver is standing for the first time in what feels like days. The other Googles took their headphones off as Oliver whirred towards the door, beeping in concern. 

The four Googles, Wilford, and Bim met outside the clinic, silent understanding radiating through them. Google_B knocked on the door first, a sharp tap in the stillness. 

“Doc?” Wilford pressed an ear to the door, shaking his head. “I don’t hear anything.”  


Google_R glared at them all, arms folded. “This is not helping,” he snarled, eyes flashing.

The effect was, if anything, immediate. Google_B rounded on him, practically sparking. “What do _you_ suggest, then?” And Bim had never known that robots could be so sardonic.

Google_R squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, looked his lone in the eye. “Anything would be better than standing around doing nothing.”

“We are not ‘doing nothing,’ Google_G snapped, and Oliver quietly beeped in agreement. “We are looking for the Doctor in the most statistically likely place--”  


“Would you shut _up_?!” Wilford’s hand was at his hip, eyes glinting dangerously, and even Google_R knew well enough not to argue.   


Bim glanced at Wilford, a kind of jaded bitterness behind the look in his eye. “Google,” he said, addressing himself to the androids, “where are the _other_ statistically likely places for Doc to be?”

“Well--”  


“Just start walking,” Wilford practically snarled, about to jump out of his skin.   


The six of them trooped in tense silence upstairs, to the Doctor’s bedroom door. 

Again, Wilford knocked, antsy. “This is getting me  _nowhere_ ,” he muttered, revolver barrel scratching the back of his head. 

“ _You_?!” Google_G said, incredulous, but Google_B cut him off.   


“Quiet. The Doctor is nowhere to be found, and, while irregular, we must remain--”  


“Who died and made you the leader?” Wilford bared his teeth, tired, but every action coming across with the clarity of a knife cutting to the bone.   


Google_B’s eyes flashed, a whirring starting deep in his chest. “Excuse me,” he said, not sounding at all excusable, “I am just trying to help--”

“And going about it vastly inefficiently,” Google_R snapped, a foot against the wall.   


Bim reared up. “At least he’s _trying_ to help, Red!”

“It is not my fault that--”  


“No, nothing’s ever your fault, is it?”  


“Wilford, if you want to keep that hand, I suggest not waving it under my nose.”  


“Or what? You’ll take it and shove it--”

Oliver interrupted them with a loud beep-- a screech, really-- clapping his hands over his ears. The Googles froze, Google_R nose-to-mustache with Wilford, and Bim drew back cautiously. 

“Dark,” Oliver bit out, glaring at them all. “ _Dark.”_  


One by one, the Googles, then Bim, then Wilford, stepped back, a growl still hanging in the air. Layered over it, now, a veneer of terror. 

* * *

The six of them met the Host at Dark’s door, muttering to himself, brow furrowed. 

Sharp knocking at Dark’s door, followed by violent muttering, shuffling, then two gunshots. 

Bim stood back, an uncharacteristic scowl across his face, watching Wilford kick the door in. The Host, beside him, crossed his arms. “Idiots,” he muttered, as the door splintered inwards. 

Wilford stormed in, the Googles shining cautious lights in after him. Bim, behind Oliver, peered out at the darkened room. 

Dark sat behind his desk, suit smooth, not a hair out of place, looking better cared for than the rest of them. His aura nearly blacked out the rest of the room, and for the most part, it was them and the Googles’ lights floating in a void. 

“Where’s Doc?” Wilford, smoking gun still in hand, stalked over to glower down at Dark.   


“The Doctor?” Dark smiled, slimy, gilded. “Why, I expect he’s at work.”  


“Don’t--” Wilford started, jabbing his gun at Dark, scowling, eyes glinting.  


Google_R stormed in after Wilford, eyes flashing red. He pushed Wilford out of the way, sending him reeling. “What,” Google_R snapped, beeping, “have you done?”

Dark beamed up at them all, blinking slowly. “What _have_  I done? Do tell me, Google.”

Wilford came running back before Google_R’s fans could pick up, his own eyes flashing a dangerous pink. “Red,” he snarled, “this is between _me_  and _Dark_. Don’t bite off more than you can chew, robot.”

Each of the Googles bristled, flickering lights on and off, waiting for Google_R to lash out, strike back at Wilford. 

Google_R only stood, staring down at Wilford with a kind of contained rage. 

The Host stepped forward as Google_R froze, glaring down at Wilford with fists curled. “Darkiplier,” he said, lip curling. “Have you seen the Doctor?”

“Of course I’ve seen him,” Dark said, the smile beginning to slip sideways from his face, losing patience. “Why is this relevant?”  


Google_B pushed the others out of the way, Wilford struggling, Google_R stiff. “Dark,” Google_B snapped, fists on the desk. “We are looking for the Doctor. Do you know where he is?”

“This is ridiculous,” Wilford snarled, making to pull Google_B back. “He’s _fucking_  with us.” His gun shook in his hand, white knuckles against cold metal.   


Google_R folded his arms, pushed back, and snorted with the buzzing of fans. “Well, Wilford, what you are doing isn’t exactly _working_.”

Dark chuckled, low, but hardly anyone noticed as Wilford whipped around, pink eyes rapidly approaching magenta. “At least I _work_ , Google.”

The Host heard the whirring of the Googles’ fans, the clicking of Wilford’s gun, Dark’s laugh. Something was about to happen, and fast, and soon, so he did the only thing he could do. The Host took a step back. 

Google_B jabbed an empathetic finger into Wilford’s chest. “As the resident troublemaker, Wilford, I suggest you stand down while _we_  deal with Dark.”

“Excuse me?” Dark said, rising, a sneer in place on his face. “‘Deal with’ me? You won’t be ‘dealing’ with anything, Google.”  


“Can you guys just calm down?” Bim’s voice was strained, holding back the panic pulling at the back of his throat. “Please?”  


“Give me a sec, Bim,” Wilford said, glaring at Dark. “Look, Darkipoo,” and his words dripped honey, “we just wanted to find Doc. Tell us what you did, and--”  


“And what?” Oliver beeped, squinting. “Last I checked, your threat level is relatively _low_.”  


“I’m a threat to _Dark_ ,” Wilford snapped, defensive, “ _and_  to you.” A vein starting to pop on his forehead, he leveled the gun at first Dark, then Oliver.  


Google_B made as if to smack the gun out of Wilford’s hand, but Google_R beat him to it. Wilford blocked the robot’s wrist, the clang of metal on metal, loud in the sudden silence. 

Google_B pulled Google_R back, glaring. “Unnecessary,” he growled, eyes flashing. 

“I’ll tell you what’s _unnecessary,”_ Dark snarled, staring daggers at them all. “This conversation. Get out.”  


“Not until you tell us where Doc is,” Bim insisted, shrinking a little, but scathing all the same.   


Google_B, Google_R, Oliver, Wilford, Dark, and Bim stood in a circle, voices raised, fingers pointing, the room seeming to vibrate with anger. 

Google_G stepped back to stand by the Host, shaking with suppressed rage. “This is going nowhere,” the Host whispered, tension rounding his shoulders. 

Google_G looked across at him, a twinge of concern overriding the anger in his servers. “Would the Host like to go elsewhere?”

After a second, Wilford raised his gun, and Dark’s aura flickered. The Host nodded, and Google_G put a gentle hand on his arm. Quietly, without any of the others even turning around, Google_G and the Host walked out of the room, down the hall, to a quiet library without shouting, fighting Egos. 

Oliver stormed out next, hands over his ears, dragging Bim with him, and Bim led them to the studio and soundproofed practice rooms, padded walls to punch.

Google_B slammed the door and stalked down the hall, ignoring the shouts from both Wilford and Dark. After a second, Google_R hurried after him, a hard grip on his upper arm, angry whispers, flashing eyes. A moment, and a whispered apology. The two of them retreated to their own office, computers and noise-canceling headphones and projects to lose themselves in.

Wilford stayed, and the office shook with his and Dark’s arguing for hours, pink sparks and black smoke flying from under the door. The argument ended the way it usually did-- with Wilford firing a bullet in Dark’s direction and vanishing in a puff of smoke, not to be seen in this dimension for days to come. 

Dark, his office finally quiet again, sat back in his chair with a sigh. He took pains to keep the office safe, keep each member of it alive, and this was one of them. He looked down at the gash on his shoulder where Wilford had shot him, grazing the side of his arm, and took a deep breath.   

Dr. Iplier stepped out of the closet, knocking lightly on the door frame. “Thank you, Dark.”

Dark shook his head, fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve. “It isn’t going to fix much, Doctor.”’

Dr. Iplier shrugged, stepping over to look at the injury. “They’re all taking a break, which is as much as I-- as _we_ \-- could hope for.”

A sad smile. “All they need is a punching bag, at the worst of times.”

“You’re more than a punching bag, Dark.” An oddly protective tone to his voice, as the Doctor leaned over the graze on Dark’s shoulder. “You’re keeping them sane.”  


“Hmmph.” 

Dark was silent as Dr. Iplier clasped his hands over the blood, fingers glowing bright blue. The Doctor lifted his hands, and all that was left behind was a rip in Dark’s shirt. “Take it easy, alright?” Dr. Iplier straightened his head mirror nervously, beginning to back out of the room. 

Dark didn’t look up, his aura laying a heavy paw against his leg. A forced smile, again. “I will. Thank you, Doctor.”

Dr. Iplier shut the door quietly behind him, brain buzzing, hands shaking. Dark had been scared, the most scared that the Doctor had ever seen him. _They’re all fighting_ , he’d said, the _again_  going unsaid. The fear behind the _what-if’s_ going unsaid. 

Dr. Iplier’s plan had gone well, and each member of the office had gotten their anger out.

Well, all except the Doctor himself. 

He staggered into the clinic, locking the door behind him, and slid to the floor. A part of him, a large part of him, wanted to curl up and sleep for the rest of the week. A smaller part of him wanted to sit here in silence, staring into space, numb to the world.

But a tiny, tiny sliver of him smiled, warmth blossoming in his stomach. The anger behind each reiteration of _Where is the Doctor_  managed to save a small part of him, remind him that the others cared. Every bit of Wilford’s rage communicated itself into some kind of fondness: the fact that within the hour, each of the Egos-- even Host-- had come looking for him. 

And as Dr. Iplier gave in to the urge to go straight to bed, the idea that kindness was to antibiotics as infighting was to sepsis kept a warm kind of contentment alive in his chest. 


End file.
